Look you here, Silvia, [pulling out a
purse and chinking it] here are songs and dances, poetry and music-
-hark! how sweetly one guinea rhymes to another--and how they dance
to the music of their own chink. This buys all t'other--and this
thou shalt have; this, and all that I am worth, for the purchase of
thy love. Say, is it mine then, ha? Speak, Syren--Oons, why do I
look on her! Yet I must. Speak, dear angel, devil, saint, witch;
do not rack me with suspense.
SILV. Nay, don't stare at me so. You make me blush--I cannot
look.
HEART. O manhood, where art thou? What am I come to? A woman's
toy, at these years! Death, a bearded baby for a girl to dandle.
O dotage, dotage! That ever that noble passion, lust, should ebb
to this degree. No reflux of vigorous blood: but milky love
supplies the empty channels; and prompts me to the softness of a
child--a mere infant and would suck. Can you love me, Silvia?
Speak.
SILV. I dare not speak until I believe you, and indeed I'm afraid
to believe you yet.
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